


Indulgence

by imsfire



Category: The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Natasha adjusting to life post-Red-Room, headcanon; Natasha has a sweet tooth
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-15
Updated: 2015-12-15
Packaged: 2018-05-06 19:41:17
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 842
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5428298
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/imsfire/pseuds/imsfire
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Adjusting to a new life can be a strange and tortuous business...</p>
            </blockquote>





	Indulgence

He isn’t her handler; Coulson insists that must be a job for someone with the relevant experience. Especially important with a case like this, says Coulson. But since there seems to be a slight, grudging trust emanating from her whenever he’s around, he has been allowed the task of escorting Natasha Romanova for her normalisation trips. 

Take her to a ball game or out for pizza or something, Coulson says. Get her used to being around people without having to size them up for attack every second. Teach her to relax in public places, instead of being constantly on duty.

He takes her to a ball game, and for pizza, one or the other every week. The pizza parlour guys must think they’re a couple, they come so regularly. He doesn’t let on, but actually he’s enjoying this role. He never brought in a recruit before; it matters to him that things should work out for her. It’s not just that she’s the hottest thing he’s laid eyes on in a good many years; it’s not just her aura of contained, quiet power; it’s not just her sass, or indeed her ass, though both are wonderful. He cares that she should make it, that she should get the chance to not only be good at her work but also functional as an ordinary member of society.

Well, as ordinary as any of them are.

Two months into her re-training, they are walking back from the pizzeria to the subway as usual. Walking two feet apart, not touching, she calm and only slightly watchful, he slouching along with hands in pockets. All just as normal. And he notices something. 

It’s just the tiniest flicker of a glance. His nickname wasn’t earned solely from marksmanship; he’s quick to spot details, and this was tiny even as details go. Her eye was caught by something to his right. 

And although she looked away instantly, her expression, for that infinitesimal fraction of a second, had been one of longing.

He stops and looks back. It takes him only a second to recall where they were standing the moment she looked, the angle, the trajectory of her glance. 

It was a cake shop. French Patisserie, it says in curly gilt letters on the window, above an elaborate display of éclairs and pastry puffs and glistening glace fruits and chocolate. He looks back at her, and now that she’s having to look this way her eyes slide past him again, to come to rest for a second on the cakes. Just for a second. 

“Hey,” he says. ”You want dessert?”

She looks at him and her expression freezes. It’s the first time, he realises, that anyone here has told her they’ve caught her letting her thoughts off-duty. She knows that’s what these trips are for; she’s been briefed on it. But that is rational knowledge, not knowledge in the bones; in the bones, he can tell, she feels caught-out, and being caught-out still makes her tense up. 

He wonders what was used on her, what threat or pressure-point trigger, to reinforce the knowledge that she could never, ever do this. He’s accustomed by now to watching for these micro-expressions, because everything is always only just an instant, with her; and this time, for just an instant, she looked almost-scared. A tiny nostril flare, a widening of her already-wide eyes, a tightening of her stance. Perhaps “scared” is too strong a word, he thinks. Threatened, maybe? 

She looked as though she knew she would be punished for this slip.

Just an instant; then he sees her relax. As she has been told she can. And then, which is better, relax a bit more. He realises that her usual “relaxation” is merely a lower level of tension. A lower note, on a scale who-knows how long.

He wonders how many months or years it will be before there comes a time when she can really relax and let herself come off-duty, in word and mind, in thought and heart, in body and soul. However long it takes, he means to be there when it happens.

She says quietly “We were never allowed these kinds of foods for ourselves. They’re unhealthy; and self-indulgence is the enemy of self-discipline. I only ate such things when I was with a mark.” And then she swallows and says in an even quieter voice “Yes. Yes, I would like dessert.” She looks him in the eye, defiant and shy and confiding and rebellious, and utterly, utterly in control; and for just a second almost-scared of her freedom to ask. Says “Please, Clint, can we buy chocolate cake?”

He smiles, and after a second she smiles back. Neither of them says anything more, but they both know what a string of tiny victories has just been won. The victory of allowing herself an indulgence and asking for something she wants; the victory of ignoring one of the rules inculcated into her. And the victory of her knowing he can see through her, and still trusting him.


End file.
